After Canterbury

Journal Wednesday 29th August 2018 0840hrs

Yesterday I transcribed my journal entries from pilgrimage. Rather light work, I must say. It’s possible all I had to say, and all that was of value, went into my video diary, which I must yet edit. It is also possible I was simply too tired or practically inconvenienced to write. What is slightly more mysterious to me is that I wrote not a word thereafter. I know I was highly charged, full of feelings, raging and flowing. Some of it I know is captured on video, but
none of it in written word. Why?

At such distance, I cannot say with great certainty; equally, distance can lend clarity.
Feelings do not come at us in the shape of words. Words are simply the tools we have with which to give them shape. I remember enjoying whatever it was I was feeling, just allowing myself to feel without having to give it a name, explain it or make a record. I am reminded of people at special events who film everything on their phones yet forget to watch any of it for real.

I know I had a strong desire to close the door, to draw a curtain on the experience. After I tossed my staff into the river, that was it, and for the next two days – a night in Canterbury, a day in Deal and on the road – I felt as though suspended, temporarily removed from any reality but my own. There was no home to go to, no time to spend, use or waste: just me and an evening and a morning.

I bought a cigar before Evensong; once I had showered and dressed for the evening, I ate dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant by myself. Some visitors from Lancashire got chatting with me. That was nice. My inhibitions with strangers went once I was on the road, and I had, by that evening, developed a certain joy in connecting with people. There was also a degree of counsel in it, for I had to put my journey into words, and unlike with standard conversation – work, love life, &c. – the chat was fresh and I wanted to share it as though for the first time, because it was the first time.

Thereafter, a drink at the Cricketers and then a puff overlooking the Stour under the aegis of the West Gate. A stranger came to me and, photographing the church there, asked me what it was called. I said I did not know, adding ‘it’s pretty, isn’t it?’ and she readily agreed. Everything was lovely to me that evening.

It was Evensong that did it, I think. Had it been a trek just anywhere – to Milton Keynes, let’s say – the experience would have been duller. It was the voice, the silent accord, the reverence for words, the harmony, the stillness, the purpose, the spiritual warmth, everything. Sitting there, bathed in song, I could let go. And there was much to let go.

Much to let go. For I had not realised, was not conscious of, how much it was my mind
that drove me forward. Not my body. Without anyone else at my side, all the drive came from within, and that leant me the most tremendous energy and power, enough to push me across an entire county by myself. I complain in my notes that I am not as reflective as I think I should be. Well, this made sense of it. It was all subconscious, below the level of my waking thoughts. And so sitting there, at Evensong, I felt inside that it was ended, and I let go. The energy and the power fell away, and everything that had hibernated beneath came to life in me, and made me feel freer than I ever had.

Maybe that’s what happened. It feels right to me. I still have a little of it now, or a token of it, as I recall it now for this journal: for I feel so young again; life is exciting again.